


Seingeda

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Advice, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, how I wish things had ended, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bellamy and Lincoln look out for each other.</p><p>AU after season 2 finale, with vague allusions to portions of s3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seingeda

**Author's Note:**

> May we meet again.

**I.**  
Someone settles next to him after he’s drained his second cup. Bellamy turns his head, ready to snap at the third person who’s tried reasoning with him in as many days, only to have a familiar hand set a new cup in front of him.

He stares at the clear liquid, then at Lincoln. “What’s this?”

“Stronger than whatever you’ve been drinking.” When he keeps staring, the Grounder just lifts an eyebrow and takes a gulp of his own drink. “Suit yourself.”

Bellamy turns back to his cup, taking only a moment longer before letting the liquid sear his throat. He coughs just once, blinking through the burn, then exhales, rolling his shoulders. Yeah. This is what he needed.

He raises his cup in Lincoln’s general direction, and they keep drinking.

An hour later, Lincoln is the one to break the silence. “Have your wounds healed?” He doesn’t say from where. They both know from where.

“Mostly.” Bellamy doesn’t feel like going into detail. From the corner of his eye, he sees the other man’s hand clench into a tight fist.

“I am sorry,” Lincoln says abruptly. “I should not have left you—”

“Don’t,” he cuts him off, shaking his head. “Don’t do that. What’s done is done, alright? We’re out. We—” He swallows, repeats what’s become their mantra now. “We did what we had to to survive.”

To his relief, Lincoln doesn’t argue with that. But then he says something almost worse.

“They'll be looking for her.”

Bellamy closes his eyes against the sheer volume of emotions swirling in his chest. It’s impossible that one person should have this effect, and yet— there she is, in his mind’s eye, walking away with his heart in her hand.

“I know,” he says gradually.

“I can get a message out. There are some who will shelter her for a time. If she comes across them.” 

He looks over at Lincoln, who stares right back, as if waiting for the argument that’s sure to come. Except, Bellamy doesn’t have the energy to pretend any more. Not tonight.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and Lincoln just nods silently.

After a while, Bellamy mutters, “O’s still sleeping outside?”

Something like a sigh escapes the other man. “Yes. I’ve tried—”

“I know. We all have.” Bellamy swallows, finishing his drink. “She hates it here. I wish— I don’t know how to change that,” he says sadly.

“Hate is a strong word.” Lincoln sounds contemplative. “I think she just feels out of place. Like she does not belong.” 

“She feels like she belongs with you.”

Lincoln looks at him, wary, like he’s waiting for something more, but Bellamy just pushes away from the table, slinging his rifle over his shoulder again.

“Better go relieve Miller from watch duty.”

“Bellamy.” The resolution in Lincoln’s voice makes him stop and glance over his shoulder. “She is your sister. She’ll always belong with you, too.”

After a moment, he nods briskly. “Thanks for the drink.”

 

 **II.**  
Bellamy likes it up on the new watchtower. It’s removed enough from the bustle of camp that he can just sit and think, but still keep an eye on the goings-on below. And maybe escape the blue-eyed gaze that seems to follow him everywhere.

Footsteps sound on the stairs, and he’s standing and reaching for his gun before he can help it.

Lincoln stands before him with a plate of food, not the least bit startled. Sheepishly, Bellamy lowers his gun and scrubs his tired eyes. 

“Force of habit. Everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine. We brought boar, from the hunt. Thought you would want some.”

Even as he takes the plate, Bellamy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Did you really?”

It’s Lincoln’s turn to shrug too casually. “Clarke did not think you would accept it from her,” he admits.

“Mhm.” Bellamy sits down again, balancing the plate on his knees and digging in with the bread. He’s ravenous, honestly. Lunch had been a handful of berries and a bowl of soup that he passed off to Mel when Clarke wasn’t looking. 

Which, these days, is pretty rare.

She seems to have made it her mission to keep an eye on him ever since returning to Arkadia, and he can’t decide if he’s thrilled or irritated that _now_ she’s decided he matters.

“You have always mattered to her,” Lincoln says solemnly.

Bellamy chokes, coughing until Lincoln thumps his back. He holds two thumbs up, taking deep breaths and tilting his head back against the wall. He’s glad only Lincoln was around to hear his mangled thoughts. That’s enough embarrassment for one day.

Slowly, he dabs at the spicy meat again, savoring the treat. Winter had been rough, but with spring on the horizon, they’re having more luck with the hunts, and more cabins litter their encampment now. Soon crops will be rising from the grass again. It’s— it’s good.

“She’s worried about you.” Lincoln’s voice breaks into his thoughts again.

“O doesn’t need to worry,” he says automatically. “She’s got—”

“Not Octavia.”

Oh. _Her._ Suddenly he’s angry.

“Well I worried about her for three whole months and then all I got was an ‘I’m sorry’ and another two weeks of complete silence while she decided to become a Grounder, so maybe she deserves to know what real worry feels like for a while.”

He feels awful as soon as he says it. If there’s anyone around here who worries as much as he does, it’s her. As usual, Lincoln voices no judgment, simply waits for him to push past the anger to the real thing. Sighing, Bellamy pushes his plate aside, hands clenching into fists and then releasing.

“I don’t know how to talk to her,” he says quietly. “It’s not— it’s not the same. We can’t go back to how it was before.” 

Before she left them. Left him.

“Maybe you don’t go back,” Lincoln replies. “Things are not the same as they were, and that is a good thing. So move forward. Start new.”

“How?”

“There’s no easy path. You just put one foot in front of the other, and hope someone walks beside you.”

He thinks about his sister, how she’s taken Jasper under her wing like a natural, borne his grief alongside him even when she was clearly ready to have taken off.

“What about you?” He asks Lincoln. “Are you and O moving forward? From all this?” He waves a hand at the camp below.

“Sometimes I do wish we could still live in my old village, or that we could stay here and make a life with both _Trikru_ and _Skaikru_ together.” He gazes out at the camp. “I do not know if either of those is possible anymore.”

“It might be. You never know,” Bellamy murmurs, almost to himself.

“Perhaps. But I do know one thing. I will go where she goes.” Lincoln smiles faintly. “That’s enough for me.”

Bellamy chews on the thought for a while. Maybe it can be as simple as that. Stop lingering in the past, work towards a future, and hope the ones you love will join you.

It would be such an immense relief to stop fighting his instincts after so long. To just allow himself to try. To share the burden again with someone—no, not just someone. With Clarke. To share ideas and thoughts and argue without tiptoeing around each other like they’ve been doing for weeks. 

It might not be like before — but maybe it’ll be better.

 

 **III.**  
He’s just about to drift off when Lincoln groans.

Bellamy opens his eyes, wincing when he can’t get up from the chair as fast as he’d like. Cradling his injured arm to his side, he grabs the cup of water and hands it to the other man, pulling his chair closer to the cot.

“What—” Lincoln coughs and sputters, then manages, “What happened?”

“What happened is you’re both idiots.”

Clarke stomps into the medbay, fully ignoring Bellamy while she does a quick check on Lincoln, her questions as brief and precise as her hands are gentle. When she’s satisfied, she folds her arms in front of her.

“You are not to move from this spot until I say so. Do you understand?” 

Bellamy doesn’t blame Lincoln for nodding as fast as he does. Clarke turns the full force of her severity onto him, but he’s had a few hours to get used to it, so he tilts his chin up defiantly. She sets her jaw, nostrils flaring.

“Nathan,” she says calmly.

Puzzled, Bellamy looks past her to find Miller in the entrance. Clarke’s still glaring at him. “If he moves, you have my permission to shoot.” With that, she stalks out of the medbay.

Miller flashes him a grin. “You’ve done it this time, man.”

“Shut up,” Bellamy grumbles.

Lincoln clears his throat. “Can someone please remind me what happened?” 

Bellamy turns to him. “It was on our way to meet Indra at the lookout. We were ambushed.” He’d barely had time to get his gun up, let alone try to catch the markings on their faces. All he knew was that they weren’t Azgeda or Trikru.

Lincoln had been injured taking a poisoned arrow meant for him. Then he’d had the nerve to tell Bellamy to leave him there. Even injured, he wouldn’t lose his nobility. Adrenaline and sheer willpower had helped Bellamy get him somewhat hidden before he led their pursuers in another direction. Attempting to finding a hiding spot of his own, he’d fallen down a ravine and ended up staying there until, irony of all ironies, Lincoln came to find him. They’d been in bad shape by the time Arkadia’s gates came into view.

“You should’ve just gone back to camp. I even left a flare with you,” Bellamy scolds. “Who knows how long the poison’s been in your system now.”

“I knew the antidote,” Lincoln says, unfazed. “I gathered some on my way. It was in the pocket of my jacket. Besides, I was not returning to Octavia without you.”

“Then you should know better than to tell me to leave you behind.”

Lincoln inclines his head. “Fair.” Then his expression clouds. “So… why are you still here?”

“You heard the doctor.”

“No, I mean— why are you _here?”_ He gestures to the chair Bellamy occupies despite the many other empty beds in the sick bay.

“Oh.” Now Bellamy understands. He rubs his neck, studying the faded quilt blanket. “O was too pissed to stay. I think it scared her, to see you like this again. Not that she’ll ever admit it.” He shrugs. “But she’d have wanted someone to be with you when you woke up.”

He offers a wan grin. “I know I'm not as pretty as her, but I’m the only other Blake around.”

Lincoln cracks a smile at that, shaking his head. “So where is she?”

“Where do you think? Off to kick their asses with Clarke.”

“Shouldn’t take long,” Miller drawls from the doorway.

They both grin ruefully. Bellamy leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out. Since he’s stuck here, he may as well get comfortable.

“Bellamy.” Lincoln’s voice is quiet, and full of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary. We look out for our own.”

Lincoln looks a bit taken aback, but then his expression settles into something thoughtful. “Yes. We do.”

 

 **IV.**  
Even though Bellamy knows the day is coming, it doesn’t stop him from being pissed about it. Octavia is surprisingly silent in the face of his arguments — _too dangerous, long trip, bad weather, rogue Grounders_ — and even after he’s exhausted those she just looks at him sadly, because it’s time, and they both know it.

Separating from his sister is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. No matter how much he tries to prepare for it, he still finds himself unable to sleep the night before they’re scheduled to leave.

Clarke reaches for him drowsily when he tries to ease out of bed. “Ssh,” he murmurs, touching his lips to her forehead. Stubbornly, she clings to his arm, the furrow in her brow only deepening when he tries to pull away.

“Clarke,” he tries again, “I’m just going to check on the night guard.”

Her eyes flutter open. “No you’re not,” she yawns, but loosens her grip anyways. “Do you want me to come with you?”

"No." He kisses the palm of her hand. “I want you to go back to sleep.”

Clarke frowns, tugging at his collar until he rests his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry about Octavia,” she whispers. He nods past the lump in his throat, letting his eyes drift shut. Her nails tug gently along his scalp before letting go. She sits up while he changes, watching him quietly.

“Bellamy,” she says softly, right before he leaves. “Come get me if you need anything, okay? _Anything._ Promise me.”

“I promise.” 

He heads for the training room inside the ship, wondering if he can use one of the old cushions as a punching bag. Instead he ends up just pacing back and forth in the space until Lincoln appears in the doorway.

They haven’t spoken much since Octavia broke the news to him. Whether he’s been avoiding Lincoln or the other way around, he’s not sure. But suddenly his energy dissipates, and he slumps on the floor, deflated.

Lincoln pads in and sits down a few feet away. They sit in silence until he unfolds a piece of paper from his pocket and slides it over. At first he registers just charcoal in varying shapes and lines. Then his mind focuses, properly wakes up, and he figures it out.

It’s a map. Bellamy raises his eyes.

“There are two ways to Luna’s camp from here,” Lincoln begins. As he talks, Bellamy trails a finger along the paths he describes, noting the spots he suggests avoiding and the areas where _Trikru_ traps still linger. Lincoln explains the longer, safer route, the one he and Octavia will take, and the shorter route. Just in case. Neither of them say why, but Bellamy appreciates it either way.

“You are the only one with a map,” Lincoln comments, nodding at the paper. “So don’t lose it.”

“Clarke can draw up another copy,” Bellamy says absently. His throat tightens as he stares at the page for a few more minutes. This is happening, whether he likes it or not. And he’ll have to find a way to make the best of it. For his sister. 

“If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t let her go,” he says eventually, staring at the floor. “But— I trust you.”

“If it were anyone else, I would not have made a map,” Lincoln replies. Bellamy glances up at him. “I trust you as well.”

He nods. Lincoln unfolds himself from the ground, preparing to leave. But suddenly the training mat gives Bellamy an idea. He wonders how he didn't think of it before—it's the perfect outlet for all his restless energy. Standing, he tucks the map away in his pocket with a grin. Lincoln looks at him curiously, sensing the shift in his mood.

Bellamy walks to the mat and turns, spreading his arms. “What do you say? One more round?” 

The other man grins.

 

 **V.**  
Bellamy does his best not to fidget as cool paint trails over his skin, but he can’t help twitch now and then. At least Lincoln is efficient; for that he’s grateful. Then a swirl comes too close to his nose, and he sneezes.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Just two more minutes,” Lincoln says, laughter in his voice.

“Yeah.” Bellamy wrinkles his nose again. “I don’t know how you guys stand it, honestly.”

Lincoln finishes a pattern on his shoulder. “You get used to it.” After a pause, he adds, “It’s good of you to do this.”

“It’s Octavia’s day,” Bellamy says simply. “I’d do anything she asked.”

Finally Lincoln sets the paints aside, and he sags in relief. He stands still while his friend inspects the markings, waiting for his nod of approval.

“You make a decent Grounder,” Lincoln says.

Bellamy snorts. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to what I know.”

There comes a quick tap to the door, and then Clarke pokes her head in, eyes widening when Lincoln turns Bellamy towards her.

“That’s—wow.” She’s speechless for a long moment, but the crease in her brow makes him nervous until she says, “That’s very convincing.” Approaching him, she takes his hand and murmurs, “Now I know how you felt.” He waits for her eyes to lift to his after examining all the patterns on his skin. “It’s like you’re in disguise or something.”

He squeezes her hand, because he knows her mind is far, far back, and he wants her to remember where they are now. 

Leaning close, he whispers, “You’re more than free to help me wash it off later.”

Clarke turns a furious shade of red, but since she can’t hit him without ruining the paint, settles for glaring with mottled cheeks. Grinning, Bellamy curls a hand around her neck and kisses her softly.

It still amazes him he can do this, kiss her and tease her and hold her whenever he wants. Especially after going so long monitoring his every movement around her. But once he realized she wouldn’t be opposed to it — hell, that she _welcomed_ it — it was like a switch was flipped. Now they don’t hesitate to touch, regardless of their audience, because it’s always a reassurance that they’ll face the world together.

Clarke breaks the kiss first, smiling when he pouts. Her gaze shifts to Lincoln, who’s painted up even more atop all his tattoos.

“Look at you two. You are all going to make for such a fearsome family photo.”

“Photo?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow. 

“My wedding gift,” she reminds him. “I’m painting them a portrait of today. And the bride insisted that her big brother be included.”

“I don’t think—”

Clarke’s mouth covers his, catching the rest of his sentence. “No thinking necessary,” she beams afterwards, because she knows she’s sent his head spinning. “Just eat and drink and be merry.” She winks. “I think we have enough alcohol to swim in out there.”

“Luna’s clan does love a celebration,” Lincoln agrees.

Bellamy brushes a few strands of hair behind Clarke’s ear. “No braids for you?” He teases.

“They offered. But I think I’ve had enough of those for one lifetime,” she grins back and curls herself under his arm like always. “Octavia looks magnificent, though. I can’t wait for you guys to see her. I’m not sure who’ll faint first.”

“Blakes do not faint,” Bellamy says tartly, just as Lincoln states, _”Trikru_ do not faint.”

Clarke’s laughter is a balm to his heart. “Your kids are going to be so lucky, you know that?”

Bellamy and Lincoln trade a glance, at once amused and alarmed. “Kids?” They both echo.

She looks between them, catching on. “Oh my god. _No,”_ she says purposefully, smacking them each on the arm. “There are no kids, presently. I just meant, your future progeny are very lucky. Though I’m starting to rethink that,” she teases when they both relax.

Bellamy gives Lincoln a final onceover. “I think you’re all ready to go.” 

Lincoln nods, and after a brief second of uncertainty, holds out a hand. Bellamy looks at him, the hulking tattooed Grounder who he’d once considered an enemy, who turned out to be more peaceful than any of them, the most sturdy reminder of how unexpected and precious this life can be. The same Grounder who his sister fell in love with, who he now can’t see as anything other than a brother. 

He clasps his hand tightly. “Welcome to the family.”

“We have been _seingeda_ much longer than this,” Lincoln replies warmly.

Bellamy smiles. “We have.”


End file.
